It's All Fine
by fandeomoniuminthestreets
Summary: "We stopped going out soon after he came back. I mean, we go outside. But not to cases. We go to cafés and restaurants and grocery stores, but never to a crime scene" Sherlock's been back for a few months, and he's not quite himself. John worries about him and it's eating him up. Fluff will be occasional :)
1. It's All Fine

**AN: Thought it was about time I wrote another Sherlock story :) All in John's POV  
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**It's All Fine**

It's good. Everything's good, quite calm actually. It's nice.

Sherlock came back a few months ago. With Mycroft, which I thought was a bit weird. After my initial anger had died down, Mycroft talked to me. We talked for a long time. He explained why Sherlock had left and what he had done in his time away. At first I was mad that Sherlock never told me all this himself. But I was glad that he was back and I knew why he had been gone, so I didn't push it. Our delicate friendship was already on the rocks and I didn't want to tip it over into the sea over something minor.

That was why I began overlooking things. More than I did before. I noticed that he slept much more often, and he enjoyed food more also. He was friendlier too, and that was nice, of course. But still, it was weird. I never asked about it or mentioned it to him-he was Sherlock. Sherlock didn't like being asked about those sorts of things.

We stopped going out soon after he came back. I mean, we go outside. But not to cases. We go to cafés and restaurants and grocery stores, but never to a crime scene. I can't tell you how much I miss them. The excitement of a chase, the sense of satisfaction as you clap on the handcuffs. But Sherlock is content to tinker in the kitchen, experimenting, and I'm okay with that. Lestrade still visits occasionally. Even Anderson came by once soon after he returned, he was all apologetic and everything. Sherlock was polite to them both, but I could tell he didn't like them in the flat. I've sort of lost contact with the rest of the Yard.

He still plays violin till three in the morning, some things never change I guess. And he leaves body parts in the fridge, but always hygienically sealed. No more heads just sitting on the shelf anymore. I kinda miss it.

I use to hate how I would come home from work and find the flat covered in white foam because Sherlock had set the sofa on fire, or the floor all sticky because he hadn't cleaned up an experiment properly. But now when I come home Sherlock's always sitting on the sofa watching TV, exactly as I left him. He watches Doctor Who now. He once said he hated the illogicality of it all. Just recently he told me he loved all the different monsters, seems he changed his mind. I usually watch it with him; sometimes he doesn't understand the plots.

I asked Mrs Hudson to come round for afternoon tea and biscuits the other day. As Sherlock prepared her cup, chattering about an experiment of his, she looked at me with the saddest eyes.

Because it is sad to see a man who's lost his mind, but it's tragic when he'd convinced himself he's sane.

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**AN:**** This will most likely end up being a multi-chapter story, but I want to hear what you guys think of before I put too much effort into it. Should I continue it? Please leave a review for me! **


	2. Adjustment for Nothing

**AN: Here's the next chapter! I've got a good idea for the next one so that should be up soon as well! **

**A HUGE thank you to everyone who followed, favourited and reviewed! I'm not kidding if I didn't get reviews for this, it wouldn't have been updated for a loooong time!**

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**Adjustment for Nothing**

**-Seven months previous-**

"How's the blog going?"

Silence.

"Okay, have you met up with any friends recently?"

"Does the American TV show count?"

Ella sighed and crossed her legs. John could tell that she was getting frustrated and losing her patience and he knew he was being difficult but it was hard to be anything else. He shifted in his chair and looked down at his hands. After a long silence his therapist said,

"John, you're in the last stages of mourning. It's going to take a bit longer for you to fully adjust to a life without him. Don't be so hard on yourself."

John's breath hitched in his chest. He was going to have to live without him. For the rest of his life. Oh God, why was that still affecting him? It had been two years; he had to get over this! He was going to have to go back to an empty flat. Oh God.

Breathe John, breathe! As he slowly regained control of his heartbeat, he realised Ella was still talking. She repeated what she said slowly to emphasise her point.

"Writing everything that happens to you, will honestly help you. You know this."

John felt an uncomfortably strong sense of déjà vu. He'd had enough of this. He stood, clenching his hands into fists. He tried to say something to his useless therapist, but he couldn't find the right words to express himself. He just shook his head and marched out, arms swinging by his sides like the soldier he used to be. Like the soldier he wanted to be.

Why did I even go back to her? He thought. She had been useless last time, what made him think she would do the trick this time? John considered hailing a cab back to the flat but he felt too angry to sit still. He needed to get it out of his system. Walk it out, walk it out, he said to himself. These therapeutic walks were becoming a part of his daily routine.

The sun had disappeared by the time he reached 221 Baker Street. John had tried looking for a new flat and had even started packing all of his belongings, but as soon as he got around to Sh- …his things, he couldn't do it. John struggled up the stairs of his flat, leg twinging as the muscles cramped.

John was opening the door to the kitchen when he was startled by his phone ringing. He took it out and saw that Mycroft was calling. He had given his number to John after the pool with Moriarty. The elder-no wait, only-Holmes said it was for emergencies. Mycroft had never called _him_ before.

John stood with one hand on the back of a chair in the kitchen and answered.

"Mycroft?"

"Hello Dr Watson."

Mycroft didn't say anything after that and John became uncomfortable.

"Is… there a problem?"

"Not at all," John could hear muffled talking in the back ground. It sounded like Mycroft. "Are you free tomorrow?"

John was caught off guard by this. "Err…yeah?"

"Good. We'll see you tomorrow then, better tidy up the flat I think." Mycroft said with a click of his tongue. John was about to defend his flat's honour when he heard the beeping tone. He bloody hung up on him! John bristled momentarily, repeating what he had said in his head.

_"We'll see you tomorrow…." _John wasn't sure if he'd heard that right. How'd he even know his flat was messy? Mycroft said he'd taken out all the cameras. John glanced around his flat, admitting defeat. He guessed that it was pretty cluttered. As John began tidying up he played some smooth jazz in the background. He began humming along, he was enjoying himself.

It was well past midnight when John had managed to clear most of the mess in the living room. A lot had been dumped in the spare room. He knew he would have to deal with it soon but he wasn't ready yet. He flopped down on the couch in his clothes, forgetting that Mycroft usually visited early in the morning.

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**AN: I hope you enjoyed it! Please leave a review! I'm really interested to hear what you guys think!**


	3. Eggs, Sausages and Mycroft

**AN: I know I told some people that this would be up last night, but I didn't get time to post it! I hope you don't mind :P Another chapter should be up within the next few days if my Muse will allow me, I have a pretty good idea of what happens next :)**

**THANK YOU SO MUCH TO EVERYONE WHO FAVOURITED, FOLLOWED AND REVIEWED! You give me strength *flutters away on wings***

**Don't forget to review *hugs you all***

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**Eggs, Sausages and Mycroft**

John snorted loudly when he woke up. His senses kicked in immediately and he registered the sound of something sizzling and the smell of good food. He waited a few seconds to comprehend what his brain was telling him. Suddenly the kettle whistled loudly, and he rocketed off the couch, instantly regretting it. John cried out in pain as his leg cramped.

He managed to regain his footing and stumble into the kitchen blindly, rubbing the sleep out of his eyes. His vision blurred severely as the blood rushed out of his head and he had to take a moment, gripping onto the back of a chair. Not the best way to wake up, he thought.

"Good morning John. I would ask if you slept well, but by the way you're standing, I can assume you didn't."

"Oh GOD!" John shouted in surprise, "the hell are you doing in my flat?!"

"I told you I would be visiting last night, surely you haven't forgotten?" Mycroft asked in concern.

John roughly scrubbed a hand over his face and suppressed a yawn. He blushed slightly as he pulled down his shirt which was showing some of his stomach. Mycroft smirked and he felt like he needed a strong cup of tea. The elder-dammit, _only_- Holmes seemed to read his mind and said,

"Don't worry about tea John; I've cooked breakfast for us."

John couldn't do anything but stare as Mycroft made his way around his kitchen, preparing eggs, sausages, and tea as if he lived there. John heard thumping down the hall but he didn't pay attention to it.

"Sorry, how long have you been here?" Mycroft served out the food, pouring tea into three separate tea cups. John didn't notice.

"Not long. You have a good taste in music by the way; I'm quite a fan of Billy Joel. Sorry I turned it off though, it'll be easier for all of us to concentrate without the distractions. Could you get out the cutlery please?"

John frowned slightly at the wording before complying with a frustrated exhale. He bustled over to the set of drawers and yanked them open. As he handed the cutlery to Mycroft, he said politely,

"One more knife and fork please, John." John paused what he was doing as did Mycroft. They stared at each other, one confused and the other expectant. A large stack of books and papers fell down in the hallway and Mycroft tutted disapprovingly.

"What the hell? Who have you brought with you Mycroft?" John yelled angrily. He stomped down the hallway and became enraged when he found the source of the noise coming from the spare room. Who the hell did they think they were, riffling through his things?

He distantly heard Mycroft shouting for him to stop but he kept going. He banged the door against the wall and-

"John!"


	4. Bombshell before Breakfast

**AN: I'm a bit nervous about this chapter, please tell me what you thought or if I could do better! PLEASE**

**enjoy and thank you for the wonderful reviews! I love you all :)**

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**Bombshell before Breakfast**

_He banged the door against the wall and-_

_"John!"_

Sherlock turned from his bookcase with a look of surprise and delight on his face. His smile faltered, and he became anxious when John didn't respond. Why wasn't he happy? Sherlock certainly was.

"John? It's me," he took a few steps forward, tapping chest lightly, "Sherlock."

"Oh."

As the dead man approached, John took several steps backwards. His legs bumped into the hallway behind him and he felt panic rising up, urging him to run, but his body refused to cooperate. His brain yammered at him and he couldn't shut it up. Oh God, that isn't him! That can't be him! This can't be happening! He isn't real!

He regained control of his limbs and bolted. He ran out into the living room and spun around, thumping into Mycroft. Mycroft pinned his arms to his chest in a tight grip.

"It's okay John! It's okay!"

"Who the hell is that?!" John twisted out of his grip and backed into the corner of the room, feeling way too exposed. He assumed a military stance.

"You," John panted, "are going to tell me _exactly_ who that is in there," he pointed to the hallway, "and why he is in my flat."

Sherlock poked his head out from behind a wall cautiously. John got a good look at him as he crossed the room to stand by his brother. John felt his throat run dry. It was really him.

"Sh-Sherlock?" he croaked. Sherlock stood up taller, more confidently and said,

"Surprise, I'm not dead!" he brought his hands up and smiled nervously.

"Sherlock!" Mycroft gasped. John chuckled weakly and felt as his knees would crumple.

John's heart was still racing and he sat down by the window, feeling slightly faint. He leant on the table heavily with his palms digging into his eyes.

"Please explain." He said simply. There was tense silence for a few moments.

"Sherlock, I think it's best if you go to your bedroom. You can rest in there; I need to talk to John."

"For how long?"

"I don't know." John said.

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**AN: I'm not sure if I like this chapter, please leave a review for me! *mwa* I _might_ get a new chapter up today!**


	5. Clear as Mud

**AN: I'm sorry for making to wait for so long for this chapter! But to make it up for you I've made this one nice and long AND the next chapter will be up _very_ soon...**

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**Clear as Mud**

Mycroft and John sat in the living room together, facing one another. The breakfast Mycroft had prepared earlier was stuck to the pans, ruining them. John couldn't care less, really.

"Two," John took a deep breath to steady himself, "Two years, Mycroft. Why the hell is he in his room and not out here explaining this to me himself?!" John's voice became hoarse from strain and he tried to moisten his mouth. It didn't work.

"It took Sherlock a little over a year to dismantle a substantial portion of Moriarty's web," Mycroft said delicately, "He's been in rehabilitation for the rest of the time he's been away from London. His doctor's agreed that he was ready to return last week."

John's already dry throat threatened to choke him.

"Rehabilitation?" he asked. John's mind buzzed with horrible possibilities. Had Sherlock been shot? He seemed to move fine- had he been using? Did he overdose?

"He was captured by Russian terrorists under command of Moran eleven months ago. He was beaten and tortured for any time up to three months. The scarring and broken bones are old and healed haphazardly. He received many untreated blows to the head while he was there and has as a result, received brain damage."

John's world slowed down and sped up at the same time. He felt his icy heart slowly thunk into the bottom of his chest while it beat much faster than was healthy. Brain damage. He watched in slow motion as Mycroft sipped his tea with a regretful expression. Brain damage? Was he having a heart attack? After what seemed like an hour, his life and heartbeat returned to normal speed. Oh God, Sherlock Holmes had brain damage. As Mycroft set down his teacup, he said conversationally,

"It's a wonder he didn't die, John."

A wond-?"

John didn't know whether he was angry or not, he guessed he was since he felt like killing someone. Mycroft pushed himself out of the leather seat (Sherlock's seat, John's mind whispered) and wandered over to his briefcase. John watched warily as he pulled out a think wad of paper and handed it to him.

"What's this?" he asked.

"Legal papers. Some are Sherlock's, some are about training courses you will need to take, a few are about the salary you would receive from me and the rest are papers you will have to sign if you want to become Sherlock's permanent caretaker."

John, who had been leafing through the pages, stopped.

"Caretaker? What, me? Mycroft, I'm an army doctor, not a therapist."

John handed the papers back to Mycroft, who promptly gave them back to him.

"I know you're not, but you are the only person he's been willing to talk to since he came under my care."

John took a moment to digest this information. It all felt so surreal, like this wasn't really happening. Sherlock had brain damage. Now that his anger had passed, he felt ridiculously calm. He drank some of his cold tea.

"And he won't talk to anyone?"

"He's warmed up to me considerably since we first found him in the Russian camp. But other than short conversations with me? No, only you John."

John had long stopped listening. He was too busy imagining Sherlock tied up in chains in the cold, being beaten with whips and crowbars, cracking ribs and marring his beautiful flesh. Was his skin still beautiful? John was sure that even if he did have horrible scars, John would find him beautiful -anyway. Seriously, if John, the soldier with a gnarled old shoulder couldn't love a scarred man, what kind of a person did that make him? Who else was going to love him? Who would take care of Sherlock as well as John would endeavour to?

Mrs Hudson might love Sherlock just as much as John did, but she was getting on in her years. And let's face it, she wouldn't always be around to look after him. Sherlock's parents must be just as old as Mrs Hudson as well. He certainly couldn't see Molly or Lestrade taking him in, let alone anyone else at the Yard. Then a thought occurred to him.

"Why can't you look after him?"

Mycroft paused and he seemed to wrestle with himself for a moment.

"He wasn't...happy in my care." was his quiet reply.

John was astounded. He didn't know whether he was more shocked at the look of utter helplessness on Mycroft's face or the idea that Sherlock wasn't happy unless he was with John.

John picked up a pen. It all seemed quite clear to him what he should do. As he leant over to sign the pages, Mycroft quickly interjected with,

"John. I understand you may want to do this now, but I would feel much better if you took some time to think about it. I'll leave Sherlock here so you can talk to him. I'll be downstairs. Call me when you've made a decision."

Mycroft picked up his briefcase, apologized for the burnt mess in the kitchen and opened the door to leave. Mycroft's words echoed in John's mind and he felt...he didn't know what he felt. As Mycroft stepped over the threshold, John's voice stopped him.

"Take Sherlock with you."

Mycroft nodded minutely and called for his brother. John couldn't look at Sherlock as they left his flat. It was well past midday now and he had missed a whole day's work.

It all seemed quite unclear to him what he should do.

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**AN: ooohh, more angst! Please review and tell me what you think John will do...*wink***


	6. Responsibilities

**AN: And just like a promised, here is the new chapter! Sorry it's short but I'm happy with it ;)**

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**Responsibilities**

John hesitated, his hand hovering above the page, pen in hand again. Mycroft's words from that morning flitted around in his brain. He was staring resolutely at the pages in front of him, a bottle of beer in his hand. He had read all of the documents and understood what was required of him in terms of Sherlock's care. But he was still unsure.

Did he really want to do this? He would be signing his whole life away. His social life? Gone. Personal time? Gone. All of his time would be consumed by looking after Sherlock. At least he wouldn't have to work at the clinic, Mycroft clearly said he would pay John a (not to shabby amount) for looking after his younger brother in his contract.

And speaking of looking after him...bloody hell, he would have to cook, clean and be a 24/7 baby sitter. The contract said he would also have to assist him in bathing and play puzzle games to improve his mental agility. Sherlock hadn't been back in his life for a whole day and he was being asked to be lawfully responsible for him!

This was a big deal, so much responsibility would weigh on his shoulders if he accepted. If something happened to Sherlock while he was in his care...forget about Mycroft, John's guilt would be what killed him. Was he willing to accept that may happen? That he could be held responsible for his best friend's death?

Did he really want to do this?

John put down his pen and picked up his phone, dialling Mycroft's number. It was picked up immediately. He had obviously been waiting. That just made what he had to say harder.

"I'm sorry Mycroft, I just can't"

"I understand John."

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**AN: I'm just soooooo changeable!**


	7. Tough Times

**AN: REALLY sorry for the long wait guys! I hope you can forgive me!**

**Thank you to everyone who favourited/reviewed and followed! Every single one makes me so happy and gives me the encouragement I need to write! Please send me any ideas you may have! I promise to take them into consideration and I will absolutely give credit to you if I decide to use it :)**

**Enjoy!**

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**Tough Times**

Bored. In every sense of the word. B-o-r-e-d. It was official, Sherlock Holmes was bored.

He'd had nothing to do _aaaaaaaall day_. He felt like his body was dying, very, very slowly.

Sherlock walked from his old childhood bedroom halfway across the great manor into Mycroft's study. His brother had his back to him, riffling through a truly gigantic mess of papers. Sherlock saw that a Yellow Pages book was open, but he couldn't fathom why Mycroft would need to look in one.

"Hey."

"Not now, Sherlock, I'm busy."

He sighed and slumped against the doorframe. He was so _bored_. He was sure that he'd broken a record or something. Being The Most Bored Person Ever record, that's what it would be called.

"What are you doing?"

"Paperwork, Sherlock," Mycroft sighed and glanced to his brother, "please go back to your room. It's time for your exercises with the nurse anyway."

Sherlock came further into the study and sat in one if Mycroft's many leather chairs. He huffed.

"I don't like her. She's hiding something. And I hate the exercises, they're boring."

"I know they're boring Sherlock, but you need to do them. It's good for you. And the nurse was recommended from very trustworthy people, I'm sure if she was out to kill you it would have happened already. Stop being so paranoid."

Sherlock struggled to comprehend his brother's fast talking. Mycroft always talked too fast for him nowadays. Sherlock stared at his knees. He sulked quietly for several minutes while Mycroft continued looking for a carer for his brother.

Since John had refused to look after him three weeks ago, Mycroft had set out to find the next best thing-a very expensive professional. Of course, as soon as they all found out it was the famous, previously dead detective, they backed out. Threatening them to take the job wouldn't help anybody. Least of all Sherlock.

It was getting hard finding someone who fit Mycroft's hard to reach criteria: perfection. Mycroft heard Sherlock's quiet shuffling stop and he heard a tiny whisper.

"I wish John was here." Mycroft groaned internally. Not this again.

"I know you miss him Sherlock, but he has his own life now-" Mycroft turned to Sherlock, only to find that he was talking to an empty room.

Mycroft tutted and returned back to his desk. While Sherlock had always been antisocial with the employees, he had to complete his exercises. It was DETRIMENTAL to his well-being.

He didn't want to admit it, but his brother was getting worse.

He needed John.

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**AN: OOOH, but will John take him in? *evil laughter***


	8. Reasons Unapproached

**AN: Here's another chapter for you all! I hope you like it, I've been experiencing some writer's block lately...The next one should be up within the next few days!**

**Sorry the formatting is a little off in this chapter (and possible future ones) the website isn't agreeing with me at the moment.**

**To my readers of Retreating Shadows- don't think I've forgotten about it! I'm always thinking about it and planning what will happen :)**

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**Reasons Unapproached**

Mrs Hudson bustled around her kitchen, humming to herself. She put a hot tea pot, a bowl of sugar, two tea cups and milk on a wooden tray along with some honey.

It had been over a week since she'd seen John and she admitted she was a _little_ cross with him. Tea was a good excuse to invite herself over and have a discussion (though she was worried it would become more than just that). She wondered how she would broach the sensitive topic of Sherlock with him.

John should have taken Sherlock in when he returned- he was a doctor and Sherlock's boyfriend after all! She just couldn't believe that he would turn him away like that! She picked up her tray and moved up the staircase carefully. She readjusted the tray in her arms and knocked lightly on the door before entering.

"Ooh-ooh!"

John barely moved from his seat by the fire, his fingers splayed out on his forehead. Mrs Hudson was momentarily sorry that she had interrupted his thoughts, but then she remembered what he'd done to Sherlock and she greeted him a bit too cheerily.

"Good morning, Mrs Hudson" he replied blandly. He glanced at her once before turning back to the fire in the grate.

Mrs Hudson set the tray down by John's side and sat down in the leather (Sherlock's, John's mind murmured) armchair.

"I've brought you tea, dear."

"Mmm, yes I can see that."

Mrs Hudson looked at him closely. She could see that he hadn't slept well, if at all. His clothes were crinkled, his face was grey in the morning light and he hadn't shaved in several days. His gaze was vacant and misted. That simply wouldn't do. Time to talk, John Watson.

"So," she said, her hands resting on her knees, "Why didn't you become Sherlock's legal guardian?" No point in being subtle, she thought.

John had been gulping down his tea and he coughed. "What?" he spluttered.

Mrs Hudson prepared her own tea and sipped it delicately. She knew she should have talked to John earlier, her disapproval of his choice in pushing Sherlock away had been simmering away for the past three weeks and it was about to boil over. Goodness, she hoped she didn't shout at him. She loved John dearly; she didn't want to create a rift in their friendship.

"I just think you really should have taken him in, John-"

"Jesus-"

"He was your boyfriend! He still is!"

"For the last time, Mrs Hudson: Sherlock is not my boyfriend! I am not gay!" He sat back in his chair and grumbled. He was utterly exhausted and didn't want to talk about Sherlock. He didn't want to even think about him.

Mrs Hudson sipped her tea again (her hand shaking slightly) and ignored his obvious fatigue. "Well, I think it was cruel, abandoning him when he needed you the very most!" She made an incredulous noise, "I mean-he has _brain damage,_ John!" She sniffed, "He needs you!" she pulled out a handkerchief and blew her nose.

John rubbed his temples in frustration. He felt like sh*t. His guilt was threatening to overwhelm him-he couldn't cope. He felt a lump form in his throat and he tried to swallow.

"Do you have any idea why I 'abandoned' him?" John didn't like that word, it tasted sour in his mouth, "it's because I don't want to be put in _jail _when my best friend dies. How do you think I would feel if that happened?"

They both new the reasons ran much deeper than that, but they imagined it wasn't there.

Mrs Hudson looked at him with concern, her eyes wet. "What makes you think he'll die John? What are you so afraid of?"

He looked back at the fire and didn't say anything. Eventually Mrs Hudson composed herself and picked up her tea tray. As she was leaving she said to a brooding John,

"What about Sherlock's feelings?" John didn't say anything, "He may not be the same person as before, but remember that he always lied about being a sociopath."

As she left, John had never felt more alone.

_"He always lied about being a sociopath."_

Did he even dare to consider that Sherlock could...? That he may be able to...

He was so afraid.

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**AN: I'll leave you to your deductions...feel free to message me with any ideas you have for this story! Fluff, angst or drabble-I am taking everything into consideration!**


	9. Hesitant Commitment

**AN: I quite like this chapter! I hope you do too!**

**Thanks to all the people who followed/favourited and reviewed! I wish I could message every single one of my Guest reviewers and tell you how your contributions mean to me, but alas-i don't want to go to jail for harassment. XD**

**Enjoy everyone!**

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**Hesitant Commitment**

For a week after Mrs Hudson's visit, John stumbled through what had now become his life. He went to work every day, feeling worn out and unsteady. He diagnosed patients and prescribed medications, and then he went home to stare at the telly before going to bed. Every night he told himself he was overreacting. So what? Sherlock Holmes had brain damage. Things happened in the world and there wasn't anything he could do about it. He needed to stop moping and get on with his life. It wasn't his fault; there was nothing he could do to fix it.

You could take him in…his mind whispered at him late at night. You could make everybody happy and just look after him…You still have the papers, they're in your drawer. Just do what you know you want to and sign them.

John was torn in two. Sherlock was different now, Mycroft had told him. He was more emotional, more human, and that made it so hard to decide. John didn't want to fool himself into thinking that now he had brain damage, Sherlock would care about him. On one hand he wanted to indulge himself and take Sherlock in, care for him and look after him like he did before-pretend that nothing was different, that everything was normal. On the other hand he was drop dead terrified. What if it was too much? What if Sherlock was too different? What if after a few minutes of being in Sherlock's presence, he knew his brilliant detective was gone and John was stuck looking after him forever?

John mentally slapped himself. How could he think like that? How could he be so selfish? Mrs Hudson was right; he was a horrible human being for abandoning Sherlock just because of his petty insecurities. But John had the right to refuse! Mycroft allowed him to turn Sherlock away. Oh God, Mycroft. How was he coping? Was Sherlock happy with him? Stupid John! Of course he wasn't! Memories from that day floated in his head.

_"Why can't you look after him?"_

_"He wasn't...happy in my care."_

_"__No, only you John."_

John's guilt muttered horrible things into his ear. He was a terrible person. It wasn't fair. Why was he the one Sherlock Bloody Holmes had to pick to look after him? Why couldn't Mycroft do it? Send him to a facility or something?

Because only you know how he ticks, John Watson. He'll only ever be happy if he's with you, said his guilt riddled mind.

"Dammit." He cursed. John stood up from his arm chair and picked up his phone. He pressed the speed dial, urging Mycroft to pick up before John changed his mind.

"John? Is there anything wrong?"

"No not at all. I was just…" John took a deep breath, forcing the words from his lungs, "I was wondering if Sherlock was able to visit. Just for a day?"

"I'm sure that can be arranged. Is next Tuesday okay?"

"Um…" John scrambled for his diary, checking to see if he had a shift that day. He didn't. He wasn't sure if he was relieved or annoyed. "Yeah, yeah I am."

"Lovely. I'll send a nurse over as well in case anything should go…awry."

John felt his chest constrict slightly. "Okay. I'll see him then."

"Thank you John. It will mean the world to him."

John hung up and he instantly went to bed, wanting to fall asleep before he regretted his decision.

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**AN: If you feel like It's about time John started looking after Sherlock and you want the story to hurry up-I completely agree! It will happen next chapter I promise!**

**Take care everyone!**


	10. Rules, Regulations and Regent's Park

**AN: Chapter 10! Here's a nice long chapter for all you people! I know it's taken a long time for Sherlock and John to meet properly, but I felt it was important to address John's indecisiveness about the whole thing and how Sherlock missed John. Please don't hate me!**

**Enjoy!**

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**Rules, Regulations and Regent's Park**

Sherlock woke up to the sound of his alarm beeping. He reached up to turn it off and snuggled back into his blankets again, enjoying the warmth they offered. He used to hate alarms. They woke him up far too early as he once preferred to sleep in. He didn't mind them so much now. Alarms gave him routines and routines were nice. Soothing.

He flung himself out of bed and padded barefoot down to the kitchens. The cook gave him his breakfast (eggs, not his favourite but, okay) and he didn't say anything as he wolfed it down. The staff made him anxious. They never made facial expressions, and it unnerved him to not know what they were thinking.

Mycroft wandered in as the cook took away Sherlock's dishes. He was already fully dressed in a grey three piece suit. Sherlock liked that he wore the same thing nearly every day. Familiarity was good. Sherlock eyed the cook warily as she smiled at him.

"Good morning, Sherlock. I trust you slept well." Said his brother as the lady prepared his breakfast.

Sherlock slipped off his stool and wandered past his annoying sibling into the hallway. Mycroft gave his untouched breakfast a longing glance and followed with a sigh. He said good morning again and found that he was being given the silent treatment. So it was going to be one of those days, Mycroft grumbled silently. They both went back to Sherlock's room to find it had already been cleaned by the maid. Sherlock didn't like it when other people touched his things, but he liked being tidy and organized, so he didn't mind it today.

Mycroft took out his brother's clothes from the closet and laid them out on his freshly made bed. He then helped Sherlock undress and ran the bath for him, adding scented soaps and bubbles. Mycroft attempted to coax Sherlock into a conversation as they were rare these days. He wondered what his little brother thought about. It pained Mycroft to know that his brother's talent and intellect was…locked away. He hoped one day with the right kind of psychological training, he might be able to unlock it again and get his brother back.

"Do you know why I've taken out your suit rather than your regular clothes?" Since Sherlock refused to participate in his mental exercises, Mycroft hoped that by asking questions and engaging his brain, he would provoke thought process and cognitive response. Sherlock climbed into the tub and started scrubbing his skin. Mycroft began washing his hair gently. Sherlock stiffened under his brother's touch, but allowed him to keep massaging his head.

"You're going out today with Nurse Hiles. I told you yesterday where you were going, do you remember?"

He seemed to have captured Sherlock's attention. Sherlock gave the first eye contact he'd had with anyone in days.

"You're going to visit John. For a whole day."

Sherlock's eyes lit up and while he didn't say anything, Mycroft knew his brother was paying close attention.

"You'll spend all day with him. Twelve hours, no more, no less."

Mycroft explained the schedule for the day to his brother. Sherlock's therapist had mentioned that trauma victims took comfort in habits and routines. Mycroft had embraced this and planned out every minute of his brother's life. For the first time, Mycroft never worried about what his younger brother was doing, because he always knew.

Mycroft rinsed out his brother's hair and let him dry himself while he packed Sherlock's day bag. He filled it with all the things John would need for Sherlock. Mycroft only sent the nurse along in case something happened to Sherlock that John wasn't trained for. She would mill about, not in the way, but still present. Mycroft was well aware of John's long career and impressive record as an army doctor, but his psychological knowledge only went so far.

Sherlock came out of the bathroom in his towel and dressed himself in the suit laid out on the bed. Mycroft had to choke back a sob as Sherlock popped up the collar on his coat. He looked just like his old self.

"I want to go see John now."

Sherlock, Mycroft and Nurse Hiles drove out into the heart of London where they would meet up with John.

xxx

John chewed his toast. It felt like his tongue was sliding over carpet. He choked down one piece before pushing away the rest of his breakfast. He was so nervous he didn't know what to do with himself.

Maybe get dressed? His mind said. John reluctantly agreed (concerned at how he had begun to talk to himself), and washed then dressed himself.

It's just a day out. It's just a day out. You haven't committed to anything; it's just a day out. With Sherlock. With Sherlock...and a nurse. Because he has brain damage. Yeah, John could do this, no biggie.

He tied his shoelaces and wandered out into the kitchen. He had spent the whole week planning what he was going to do with Sherlock. Mycroft had called last night to explain some rules and boundaries. John began packing a picnic basket and pulled out a list of instructions and hints he had written down.

**Number one**: He can't handle large crowds or loud noises. They scared him and he would shut down. He once switched languages; he was so confused about what was happening to him. John knew that he was screwed if this happened to him. Sherlock also tended to block out everything around him until he felt safe to come back, which could be up to three days. So no busy places for them.

**Number two:** Schedules. Lots of schedules. Apparently Sherlock liked knowing what was going to happen and when. Not surprising considering how much of a control freak he had been before. John smiled a little.

**Number three**: Sherlock was a lot more emotional now and was very prone to 'distributing physical affection' as Mycroft had so carefully put it. He struggled to express emotions through words so he used touch instead, the results sometimes being harmful.

**Number four**: He didn't require assistance, but Sherlock needed to be supervised when he visited the restroom, as he occasionally suffered dizzy spells. If Sherlock fell while alone in a bathroom and cracked his head, no one would know. This rule nearly made John cancel their day together. He was glad he wouldn't have to help his mate piss, but watching was nearly just as bad. (Dammit John, you're a doctor, have some professionalism here!)

**Number five**: Medication. Sherlock was required to take three different pills at every meal and another two whenever he got a migraine. These migraines were stress induced, so when handled correctly, Sherlock experienced very few of them. John hoped he wouldn't have a drugged out Sherlock on his hands for half the day.

**Number six**: Communication. Sherlock no longer had the ability to speak at a million miles a minute. In fact, he struggled to comprehend any fast talking. John would have to experiment to see what his ranges were. He wasn't looking forward to it. He also didn't understand sarcasm or rhetorical questions as he took everything literally. John was struggling. If he couldn't even talk fast, how much of his old Sherlock was still left?

**Number seven**: He was compulsive. Usually when Sherlock saw something he liked or didn't like, he reacted to it immediately, not thinking about repercussions. This could be dangerous for him and those around him.

The list went on, but they mainly contained information on how to calm him down when angry or upset or what his likes and dislikes were.

It was like he was reading the biography of a completely different person. A few of the things John remembered about Sherlock were still there, but so much was new, different...altered. It was like the cold and mean Sherlock he once knew had been rearranged into a new, more palatable version of himself. John hated it.

He tucked the list into his pocket and lugged the basket down the stairs. He went back up to collect a few items and his coat before saying goodbye to Mrs Hudson-

("You never told me you were seeing him!" "Yes sorry, Mrs Hudson! Goodbye, Mrs Hudson. I have to go now, Mrs Hudson!")

John pulled the front door shut and hailed hail a cab. He managed to flag one down and he climbed in, massaging his aching shoulder.

"Regent's Park."

xxx

Sherlock climbed out of the black car and let Nurse Hiles lead him to a nearby bench. Mycroft followed behind, umbrella swinging along with him. It was a partly cloudy day and it wouldn't rain, but he liked the feel of the wooden handle. He looked around the green park, searching for John. If it weren't for the vibrating energy that rolled off Sherlock in waves during the ride, Mycroft would have thought he was bored.

Sherlock sat at the bench and attempted to relax himself. His nurse talked in a soothing voice about the birds and weather and Sherlock tuned her out. She was boring. John wasn't boring. He wanted to see John, where was he?

John stepped out of the cab and pulled out the basket. After handing the cabbie a few notes, he wandered. After a quarter of an hour, his shoulder began to ache horribly and he wished he had brought a trolley instead of a basket. He sat down at a vacant bench and groaned as he rolled his shoulder in the socket.

In a way, John was excited. He knew it was ridiculous, but he was. He would get to spend time with his...pal? Friend? He wasn't quite sure what they were now. What did Sherlock think of him as? What was he able to perceive now?

"John!"

Oh. Well he wouldn't have to wait long for the answer. He turned to his right and saw a party of three approaching, one much faster than the rest. John stood up, happy but nervous and he walked towards them. Sherlock's coat enveloped him completely as Sherlock hugged him.

"Sherlock!" John choked as he was taken by surprise. He tentatively wrapped his arms around the skinny man and hugged him back. John had never been hugged by him before...it was…he didn't know what to think.

Sherlock let go and stepped away, eyes twinkling. John was struck by how...normal he looked. He was wearing his usual suit, too tight shirt (John gulped) and his black trench coat. He even had the collar up, the git. Mycroft and the nurse, carrying a small black bag, came and stood by Sherlock. He was beaming widely.

The last time John saw him was four weeks ago and he didn't even look that hard at the time. He had been afraid to. Afraid that it wouldn't actually be his Sherlock. But the person standing in front of him was. But he also wasn't.

"Hello John, How have you been?" asked Mycroft pleasantly.

"Uh, before we get the day started, Mycroft, do you mind if we talk for a bit?"

Mycroft exchanged a look with the nurse and nodded. Sherlock looked panicked as the two began walking away. John, quick to reassure his friend (?) said,

"Don't worry Sherlock; we're just going for a little walk. I'll bring Mycroft right back."

"I don't care about him."

John didn't know what to say. He gave a small, reassuring smile and began walking with Mycroft along the path.

John watched out the corner of his eye as the tall detective was led back to a bench with the nurse. She had brown hair that was tied up under a white hat. She seemed nice, though Sherlock didn't look too comfortable with her.

"Alright John, what do you want to know?" asked Mycroft languidly.

John stumbled over his words as he decided which question to ask first. There was so much information to clarify.

"Well, let's start with his language swapping."

Mycroft chuckled. "Yes, that was a surprise. I suppose you want to know what caused it?" John nodded.

"We were going out on the Tube to an appointment at rush hour, and upon contemplation; it probably wasn't the best idea to go at that time." John chuckled quietly, "Too many people were touching him, too many noises, and too many distractions. He panicked and buckled. When we got off the carriage he became so confused as to where he was he began speaking a mix of five different languages. Thankfully I managed to calm him and convince him we were in England, not France, Germany, Spain or Sweden. We've made sure to avoid large crowds after that and we haven't had another incidence that drastic since."

"How did you calm him down?" The list John had wasn't extremely detailed and he couldn't take any chances when it came to Sherlock's care.

"I sang."

John went a bit hot in the face. "What did you sing?"

Mycroft smiled to himself before replying, "The Periodic Table of Elements Song." John laughed and Mycroft chortled, his umbrella swinging. It was a strained laugh, born only from not knowing what else to do.

"I'm sure he would react just as well to anything any other song, John. Should the need arise, you'll do fine. Nurse Hiles will be there to assist you in case anything happened that you weren't trained for."

John nodded and asked his next question.

"Does he still smoke?"

"I've encouraged him to quit, and he's been good so far. But occasionally he gets restless and…It's just easier to sometimes give him what he wants."

John huffed. "Well that won't be happening with me. I use to think back when we were living together that it would just be easier to give in, give him what he wants. But Sherlock needs to learn that he can't behave like a spoiled child again."

"You may change your mind after today."

John pondered over this before asking his next question.

"Is he close with anyone other than you and me? I was thinking of visiting Detective Inspector Lestrade or Molly Hooper."

"He isn't even close to me, John. And no, he doesn't like socializing much."

"Are you sure he's any different, Mycroft? Sounds like the same old Sherlock to me." His joke fell flat as neither of them laughed.

Mycroft stopped walking and addressed him firmly,

"Doctor Watson, you need to understand that Sherlock doesn't realise anything has happened to him. He thinks that he faked his death to save you and he dismantled Moriarty's web before coming back. He doesn't remember those months he spent in the Russian camp. He thinks he's normal, John."

John felt a lump form in his throat. He thinks he's normal? Images of Sherlock being beaten to a pulp in a cold dark chamber filled his head and he tried to shove them away. He thought about how warm Sherlock had been when he embraced him. It didn't help much.

"But he hugged me before! Surely he knows he wouldn't do that ordinarily."

Mycroft looked at him sadly. "All he thinks is that his time away from you changed him. Made him more human. He thinks he's like everyone else now. He's not calling himself a sociopath anymore John."

_"He always lied about being a sociopath."_ John sighed wearily. He couldn't deal with those thoughts right now.

They continued walking in silence for a while until a thought occurred to John.

"He thinks being away from _me_ changed him? That _I_ made him more human?"

Mycroft glanced at him and examined his umbrella handle. John heard hesitancy in his voice as he said,

"He's developed a…attachment to you of sorts. He hates me now, can hardly stand the sight of me." John smiled slightly, "And he detests the staff at the manor. He asks to see you often and I think…" he sighed, "I'm not sure what he sees you as John, but he most assuredly thinks you're more important than me. And I think he did long before he jumped. So, yes…he thinks you made him more human. I am unable to say whether that is true or not, as I really have no idea."

By this time they had made a small loop through the park and had arrived back at the bench. Sherlock sat at one end, watching John closely and the nurse at the other, watching Sherlock. John forced a smiled and said,

"See? What did I tell you? Back in just under," John checked his watched and groaned, annoyed at himself, "…half an hour." He berated himself for making Sherlock sit still for that long.

"It's quite alright, John. I'm happy to wait."

John felt like he was in a dream as he said goodbye to Mycroft (Sherlock huffed at him) and climbed into another cab with Nurse Hiles. Sherlock had his black bag on his lap and he talked exuberantly about the experiments he wanted to test out and which body parts he would need. He also complained about Mycroft and how badly he wanted to get back to solving cases, with John replying every so often. He was already tired and felt like a nap. The picnic basket crushed John's feet uncomfortably.

It was going to be a long day.

* * *

**AN: Ugh, so much information. I hate information chapters, but sadly-this had to be one. It's important that you read all of the stuff about Sherlock's...complications (the list) so future chapters make sense :)**

**Please review, they make me so happy and tell me what you like!**


	11. Catastrophic Control

**AN: I'm sorry for the wait guys, this chapter is _extra_ long and editing takes a while for me. I wanted to divide it into two chapters but I couldn't find a place to end it nicely. So aren't you lucky people?**

**Thank you to all of the people who have followed/reviewed and favourited so far! They give me the encouragement to keep going! Don't hesitate to suggest prompts!**

**Enjoy :)**

* * *

**Catastrophic Control**

For the next few hours, John, Sherlock and Nurse Hiles (whom had been _very_ talkative) drove around London, sightseeing together. John thought it would be nice for Sherlock as he predicted that he hadn't had a proper day in London for many months, possibly even years. He knew he was right as Sherlock couldn't drag his eyes away from the window. It was endearing, yet a bit unsettling.

They visited all the places that the two had found a dead body in (upon Sherlock's request) and places they had frequented often such as Angelo's (who greeted him like nothing was different, which John was thankful for). Nurse Hiles asked Sherlock questions about each place they visited, subtly testing what he remembered. It seemed he remembered a lot, and John was stupidly happy for it.

_So he can remember everything we've done together? God, why does that make me so giddy? John asked himself.__  
_  
There were a few moments when it seemed as if nothing was wrong. They would remember something and laugh about it. Like before everything became so...different.

For those few precious seconds in John's head, they were a team again. John and Sherlock. Sherlock and John. But while he was basking in his contentment, Sherlock would make a remark such as:

"I'm hungry, John."

And the moment would vanish. It was cruel how such a simple request could ruin the fantasy. It was a stupid idea anyway. They would no longer be a team again. How could they be? John asked for the cab to stop at Trafalgar square and they ate a small snack from John's picnic basket. He and Nurse Hiles swapped stories about university and which courses they had taken, as well as any funny memories they had. It was just small talk to just fill in the time while they waited for Sherlock to finish his sightseeing. When he returned, they continued making their way through the vast city, the driver now taking directions from Sherlock.

Sherlock nearly passed out when he told him they would be having lunch with Mrs Hudson. John laughed, genuinely happy for the first time in months. His friend (he decided that's what they were now) looked so cheerful. John had never seen him that unguarded and it was good. Strange...but good, he could get used to it. John payed the frankly ridiculous cab fare back at Baker Street and turned around to find Sherlock attempting to pick the locks on the front door. Nurse Hiles observed, obviously amused.

"Sherlock, what are you doing? I've got keys."

"I need the practice."

Why he even had his lock picking kit was a mystery to John. When Mrs Hudson answered the door she was encompassed in a bone crushing hug.

"Oh! Hello Sherlock!"

"Hello Mrs Hudson!"

John smiled broadly as he kissed her on the cheek and walked inside. Nurse Hiles followed and introduced herself to the landlady. John was coming to terms with Sherlock's way of expressing himself and while it still took him by surprise, it was nice. Almost childlike; which was very much like his old Sherlock. The three of them deposited their thick coats in the hallway and the two men walked into Mrs Hudson's flat first. They were alone for a few moments. Sherlock spun around and asked sharply,

"Why aren't you seeing your therapist anymore?"

"What?"

Sherlock looked at John, his eyes burning. John stared back in confusion, wondering how in the hell he knew. He hadn't told anyone he'd stopped seeing Ella. There was a few moments of stillness before the other two came bustling in, making the already small flat even more cramped. Nurse Hiles rummaged in the black bag and pulled out a smaller one. John looked at her questioningly before realising it was Sherlock's medication. She took out three small, orange bottles and gave them to Sherlock, who took one pill from each container dry. Sherlock was distracted when Mrs Hudson returned from the kitchen with a stew. The aroma filled the small dining room and John felt his stomach grumble. Sherlock and Nurse Hiles began chatting and he completely forgot his frankly disturbing question. John couldn't concentrate on the marvellous cooking as he was too busy wondering how the bloody hell Sherlock knew!

"Are you alright John? You've hardly said a word." asked Mrs Hudson.

"Hmm? Oh yeah, I'm fine."

Sherlock studied John's face and he felt himself flush. John looked back down to his bowl and began shovelling food into his mouth, pushing bread in as well. He made an effort to keep his mind off what Sherlock said and instead just enjoy being with him. He asked questions about his time with Mycroft and the experiments he wanted to do. For the next hour they had pleasant, if slightly stiff conversation. Nurse Hiles talked the least, just watching everyone else laugh and reminisce together. She felt like she was intruding on their precious time together. It was a bit awkward for her.

After their meal, the three of them said goodbye to Mrs Hudson (with a kiss on the cheek from Sherlock) and made their way up to 221B. Sherlock immediately zoomed off to his former bedroom, calling out to 'his centipedes' for some reason. John had no idea what he was talking about nor was he aware of any centipedes in Sherlock's old room. John took Nurse Hiles' and his own coat and hung them up. She sat down on the sofa and pulled out a book from her purse and began reading, tucking her legs up. John set down the picnic basket in the kitchen and unpacked the contents. He then moved on to Sherlock's personal bag.

Mycroft had advised he become familiar with Sherlock's medication, just in case there was an emergency and he agreed. John pulled out spare sets of clothes, including underwear (he quickly put them aside, blushing lightly) and various medical instruments and items. He pulled out the small bag containing his medicine. John studied the different bottles for some time.

He packed away Sherlock's things when he was satisfied and walked into the spare bedroom, worried by the thumping noises coming from inside. He entered and saw Sherlock delving into the various piles of things, pulling some out and examining them before placing them carefully where they should rightfully be. He looked slightly manic. His hair was dishevelled and his shirt was untucked in places. His heavy coat was hung up on a rack behind the door.

"Sherlock? What are you doing?"

He looked up, panicked.

"It's too messy John! These things shouldn't be in here!" He pointed to the masses of rubbish John had thrown in haphazardly a month ago when Mycroft had called. He felt a bit guilty, knowing that Sherlock now liked to be organized and he hadn't bothered to clean the room. "It's all wrong John! You have to help me!"

John closed the door and approached his friend, whom was running his hands through his hair. He ran his hands up and down Sherlock's arms, attempting to soothe him. He relaxed immediately under John's grounding touch, and his breathing slowed gradually. When Sherlock had calmed, John asked,

"I will help you clean up your room. Is that okay?" Sherlock nodded, his eyes closed, "I'm sorry I left it in such a mess. Do you think we can do this together peacefully?" He spoke slowly, making sure he caught every word. Sherlock nodded and opened his eyes. John's tongue refused to work properly for a moment before regaining his composure. _Dammit_.

"G-Good. Um…now, were going to start with the things that don't belong in here. We'll put it all in one pile and I'll take them out to the living room. We'll start with that and I'll tell you the next step when we've finished. Do you understand?"

"Yes John." He smiled down at him, completely trusting his friend. He felt so safe in John's arms.

The pair began working their way around the room; collecting all the books, chemistry equipment and random bits of junk that John had thrown in chaotically. Sherlock filled his arms with it all and John carried it out to the kitchen, dumping it on the table. He wasn't looking forward to finding a place for all the chemistry stuff. The kitchen was already cluttered. He went back into the room and they continued to clean and organize it for several hours, dusting being the largest job by far. John had rather embarrassingly let it get in a horrible state and Sherlock had been quite mad at him for it. He had visibly refrained from hitting John, but he soon forgave him and hugged him to prove it. He was starting to get used to these abrupt and warning-less cuddles.

Once Sherlock was happy with his old room (John doubted it would ever be anyone else's ever again) he ordered him out, a command which John was happy to obey. The work had been very tiring and he wanted to rest for a bit. He made himself a cup of tea and sat in his arm chair, groaning appreciatively.

"You're very special to him, Dr Watson."

He snorted. "You sure? He just demanded leave his room, and not very politely." John chuckled, blowing on his tea to cool it down.

Nurse Hiles rested her book on her lap and contemplated him over her red glasses. "He let you touch all of his belongings for over two hours. He can hardly stand it when a maid comes in to make his bed for five minutes. What do you think?"

John knitted his brow, thinking.

"Surely it's not that drastic?"

Nurse Hiles smiled, "He hardly talks to his elder brother, let alone me. Today has been the most I have ever heard him speak in the whole four weeks I've been with him and he gave me eye contact for the first time today. And I'm not exaggerating at all."

John whistled, stunned. When Mycroft had said he was being increasingly more antisocial, he hadn't expected this. John drank some of his tea and mused.

"I don't know if I should thank you, Miss Hiles."

"Call me Elizabeth, or Liz. We might as well get used to it; we'll probably see a lot of each other in the future." John hummed his agreement and she returned to her book.

"Well you can call me John then, but _only_ John." he said with mock sternness. Elizabeth laughed. He turned on the telly and let his mind wander, enjoying the comfortable silence.

Sherlock entered the kitchen after an hour of being in his room and began setting up his microscope. John smiled to himself. He knew he would have to pack it all away when Sherlock went back home, but he found that he didn't mind. Sherlock was alive and well...ish. But he was happy, and if Sherlock was happy, John was happy. It was all good. Maybe he could live with this.

The rest of the afternoon went by smoothly. Sherlock tinkered in the kitchen, setting up his equipment and jotting down notes. Elizabeth finished her book and quizzed John about his life. It was easier to talk than before at Trafalgar square, as they felt more like friends than colleagues now. Elizabeth asked about John's blog and with much grumbling from Sherlock, he began reading it out. After the first five stories, Sherlock began contributing rather than complaining, adding in extra detail.

John sat back and watched Sherlock explain how he'd caught the Marlyboard Jewel Thief. He enthusiastically described the conclusions he'd come to and the chase that had occurred before the arrest.

"I don't know how I knew he had divorced his wife. Memories come and go, I guess."

John felt his heart sink. Divorce? That was one of the easiest things to recognize; even John saw it most of the time. There was usually an indent or tan line where the ring was, as well as a plethora of other indicators. How could Sherlock not remember that? He remembered everything.

"I agree, Sherlock. Middle age, what can you do?" said Elizabeth kindly.

"Quite right," He agreed, "John?"

"Yeah?"

"It's six-thirty. I usually have dinner now."

John looked at his watch and saw that he was right. Now that thought about it, he was starving as well. John made to get up, but Elizabeth stopped him.

"Oh, don't get up John, I'll make it. I've been eating free food all day, cooking it is the least I can do."

John thanked her and got comfortable again, laugh quietly. Sherlock moved and sat in his leather chair to make space for her in the kitchen. He had gone through his old wardrobe and chosen to put on some jeans and a jumper. John didn't even know he owned those types of clothes. Sherlock watched the telly intently, absorbed by the evenings news.

"You got any pasta, John? I thought we could have spaghetti." Elizabeth called from the kitchen.

He thought back to his latest shopping trip. "No sorry, you want me to go get some?"

"Nah, I'll get it. Shop's just around the corner, yeah?" John nodded, "you got any cash?"

"You really are a cheapskate aren't you?" John laughed as he got out his wallet. He handed her a fiver and she collected her purse and coat. The sun had gone down and the temperature had dropped considerably.

"I do my best, John!" she yelled from halfway down the stairs.

John smiled and reached for his now lukewarm tea. He liked Elizabeth, but only as a friend. She was professional about her job (though she talked far too much) and was also a good laugh, which he didn't mind. But nothing would ever happen between them. Nothing could. He downed what was left of his drink and got up to put the mug in the sink.

As he passed the kitchen table he saw Sherlock's notes and they made him stop. What was written was scientifically sound (from what he could understand), but it was nearly impossible to read.

The once elegant writing slanted in different directions every few words and the pencil was very dark, as if he had pressed down on the page with incredible force. John glanced back at Sherlock. He was glued to the television, but his hands fidgeted on his lap constantly, never completely still.

He looked back to the notebook and tried to read it. The handwriting was messy and jagged in places, as if Sherlock couldn't quite control what his hand was doing. It made John want to sit in the corner and never talk to anyone ever again. Remembering what Elizabeth had said earlier, John asked,

"Do you mind if I move your stuff?"

"Why?" Sherlock asked apprehensively.

"I need to make dinner here." he replied, motioning to all the chemistry equipment. Sherlock started to complain about his experiments but John cut him off.

"No Sherlock, listen. Either you move this, or I do." If Sherlock thought he would be able to walk all over John then he was wrong. This was his flat and he was going to stay in control, however catastrophic the results may be.

Sherlock thought, weighing the options and he grumbled. He didn't like how John made him do things. But he liked it here better than with Mycroft so he got up and moved his equipment as John had asked. John smiled at him and Sherlock gave a little smile back, glad that he had pleased him. He liked pleasing John.

One of the things he liked most about John was that he never hid what he was feeling from Sherlock. If he was angry, he told him calmly, (unlike Mycroft, who just...looked at him funny) and if he was happy, he smiled and laughed (which Mycroft never did when he was happy). John's laugh made Sherlock feel so good and fuzzy inside. He wished he could use better words to describe the feeling, but it was like trying to hold smoke. He knew it was there and he could sense it, but it was just out of his grasp. It was very frustrating.

Sherlock came back from his room to see John mixing red sauce in a frying pan. It smelt like sweet tomatoes and Italian herbs and Sherlock's stomach grumbled.

"Could you set the table please? Liz should be back soon." he laughed, "And I found some old pasta behind the cans, she's gonna be mad."

"She'll get mad at you?" He breathed. His face was etched with concern.

"Not really, Sherlock." John realised his mistake, Sherlock took everything literally now, "Don't worry, she won't be mad at us."

Reassured, Sherlock pulled out plates, cups and cutlery. He sterilized the table (which pleasantly surprised John) before setting everything down. He noticed that Sherlock seated himself next to him, but he didn't say anything. It probably didn't mean anything anyway. Definitely. Certainly.

The door downstairs slammed shut and feet padded up the staircase. Elizabeth entered the warm flat and she dumped the shopping on the table.

"Do you have _any_ idea just how cold it is out there? And I got you your stinking pasta." John peered inside and rolled his eyes when he saw a bottle of wine in there as well. Elizabeth smirked. She liked John, she hoped to weasel a personal phone number out of him by tonight.

John clicked his tongue in mock disapproval, "I really expected better from you Elizabeth," he said formally, "And by the way, I found some pasta in the pantry. Turns out you didn't need to go out after all."

Elizabeth hit him lightly on the arm. "Bastard!" she laughed.

"**ELIZABETH**!" Sherlock howled. John, whom had been pretending cower in pain, jumped at his outburst. Sherlock lunged at her and John stepped in front, blocking her from him. He looked furious and distressed.

"Sherlock, Sherlock. Look at me, look at me. It's okay, just look at me." John said slowly, his hands on his shoulders again. Sherlock glared daggers at her before regarding John with concerned eyes.

"That's better," he smiled, "We were just having fun. Alright? No one's hurt; everything's okay. We were just joking with each other. We're both okay."

"But are _you_ okay?" Sherlock asked urgently. He seemed genuinely worried. John was moved by the concern Sherlock showed, it was incredible.

"I'm fine, Sherlock. I'm not hurt, alright?" Sherlock nodded, "Do you feel better?" He nodded again and John breathed a sigh of relief. _Crisis averted, thank God_. He knew Sherlock used to be a master in hand to hand combat and he didn't want to test if he still was, especially not on his own nurse.

The pasta began to over boil and Elizabeth rushed over to drain it. Sherlock gripped John in his third hug of the day (he could _really_ get used to this) and he breathed in John's scent. He guessed it was comforting for him so he let Sherlock continue, even hugging him back a little.

Elizabeth watched in awe. How could a man who was so closed off at the manor, suddenly be so open? Was it John? There must be something about him that made Sherlock feel safe enough to express himself freely. _Remarkable_, she thought. She reminded herself to give Sherlock his medication before eating.

By the time the spaghetti had been served, Sherlock was no longer angry and he sat down to eat. Elizabeth pulled the wine out of the shopping bag and poured it into three glasses. The one she gave to Sherlock had only a little bit in it, while the other two were nearly full.

"Jesus, Liz, we probably shouldn't drink at all, let alone a whole bottle. Where did you get it anyway?" John asked as he spooned spaghetti into his mouth. It tasted delicious and he congratulated himself on his own cooking. Sherlock sat next to John at the table and Elizabeth opposite them both. John noticed Sherlock's hand shaking slightly as he lifted the fork to his mouth. To steady himself, John sipped the wine and he gagged, gasping for breath. Elizabeth roared with laughter.

"Sh*t! That's horrible!" he spluttered. Sherlock picked up the bottle and looked at the label curiously.

Elizabeth drank some and made a face, "It's just from the corner shop next to Tesco's! Sherlock, you probably don't want to drink this."

"I think you're right." Sherlock stood up, took the three glasses and promptly poured it down the sink. The whole bottle went down as well. Elizabeth giggled as she slurped her pasta down and John grimaced.

"How much did that cost?" he asked her.

"Only a couple quid." she said grinning. John looked at her in wonder.

"What made you think a three pound wine would taste good?"

"Four pounds," she corrected, "And it was your money."

John just sighed with a smile and continued eating. He didn't really mind, Mycroft said he would pay him back for any extra expenditure.

After some silence, John realized something and he began laughing. "So basically, you're eating _my_ food that_I_ cooked, you bought horrible wine that you _knew_ would taste bad, and pasta that we didn't even _need_, all with _my_ money. Fat lot of good you are, _Nurse_ Hiles." he said jokingly. Elizabeth half-heartedly apologized and laughed. Sherlock was confused again, but he didn't say anything. She finished her dinner and cleared away her empty plate.

Sherlock took his and John's plate to the sink, which he thanked Sherlock for happily. He began walking to living room, but John stopped him.

"We're going to go out again Sherlock so you should probably get dressed in your suit again."

"Where are we going?"

"We're gonna to rent a movie- your pick. Sound alright?" Sherlock contemplated this and Elizabeth smiled at John. _If he was so good with Sherlock, why didn't he want to look after him?_ She marvelled. John knew just what would interest Sherlock, how to calm him down and he always checked to make sure he was okay with the situation. No wonder Sherlock liked John so much.

"Do I have to get dressed?" he whined.

"Yeah Sherlock, you do." John said, laughing a bit. Sherlock was so much more open with what he was feeling now and John had begun to get used to it. It was kind of endearing sometimes. _Dammit John, he's a grown man! You can't think of him that way!_ After much debate with himself John told his mind very politely that it could piss off.

"Come on, go get dressed." John patted him on the shoulder lightly. Sherlock walked into his bedroom and John asked Elizabeth awkwardly if he would need any help.

"Don't look so scared John," She said sweetly, "Just go in and make sure he doesn't get stressed. Decisions sometimes overwhelm him." John nodded and walked down the hallway.

"Sherlock? Can I come in?" John knocked on the door lightly.

"I guess."

He walked inside and found Sherlock half changed. He was back in his trousers already, but was shirtless. He pulled the button-up top out of his cupboard and slipped it on. John put his small embarrassment aside and helped Sherlock with the buttons as his hands were struggling to get them done up. John predicted that Sherlock had difficulty with fine motor control as it explained the messy handwriting and the difficulty Sherlock had when he was eating earlier. When he was dressed the three of them headed out.

They returned home fifteen minutes later with the movie _The Pirates! Band of Misfits_. Sherlock and Elizabeth commented on how the tall pirate with the scarf sounded like John. He disagreed. They were halfway through the movie when Sherlock got up for a drink.

He swayed dangerously and stumbled, knocking over the coffee table. John was on his feet in an instant.

"John? Oh God, I feel really dizzy." Sherlock slurred. His eyes struggled to focus and they rolled back into his head as he collapsed. John caught him and lowered him gently, checking to see that he was still breathing. Elizabeth crouched beside him.

"Quick, call an ambulance! And Mycroft!" John ordered. Elizabeth fumbled for her phone. Sherlock was awake, but looked about ready to pass out.

"Sherlock, Sherlock, stay with me! Stay with me! Listen to me." He slapped his cheek gently to keep him conscious. _Oh God, what's wrong?_ John's mind went into overdrive, thinking about what could have caused this. _Was he dehydrated? No, he would have said if he was thirsty! Could he-_

John's thoughts were interrupted as Sherlock rolled over onto his side and was violently sick onto the carpet. Elizabeth started to panic. She called the ambulance and then Mycroft, explaining what had happened. She was border line hysterical and was mid-sentence when she realised something.

"Oh F*ck! I forgot to give him his medicine!"

"What?! How could you forget?!" John yelled angrily. He rubbed Sherlock back as he retched, attempting to soothe him. He couldn't risk Sherlock passing out; he had to keep him awake.

"I even thought about it, but I never did it! Oh, Jesus!"

"Liz, lift his legs up, we need to keep his blood flowing to the brain." Sherlock stopped retching and he flopped down, utterly spent. He was pale and a thin sheen of sweat covered his skin. John knew he just had to keep Sherlock awake until the ambulance arrived.

"Sherlock? Sherlock what's the first element?" There was a long pause before he answered.

"Hydrogen?" Thank God, he was still awake. Sherlock closed his eyes again.

"Keep your eyes open Sherlock! Look at me, look at my face." Sherlock slowly opened his eyes again and looked at John. He coughed harshly and dry heaved again. When he was done, John asked anxiously,

"Where are you right now Sherlock?"

No answer.

"Sherlock! Come on, tell me! Where are you now? Open your eyes! Come on!"

No answer.

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**AN: Chapter 12 will be up in the next few days**


	12. Helplessness and Hospitals

**AN: Hey everyone! Thanks with sticking with me this far in the story! I had no idea it would get to much positive feedback! I love you all and thanks for the support *hugs all around***

**I just want to point out that I am NOT a medical expert...I basically researched a bunch of symptoms for brain damage and picked out the one's I liked...also I don't have too much experience with hospitals so I based it loosely off the Australian system and just had fun with it from there. I would not take any medical advice from me whatsoever.**

**Shout out to the amazing Jumble Book! Jumble Book has helped me so much with this story and suggested I add in some characters to this chapter that hadn't come into play yet. Thanks so much, mate!**

**Enjoy!**

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**Helplessness and Hospitals**

_"Sherlock! Come on, tell me! Where are you now? Open your eyes! Come on!"_

No answer.

John checked Sherlock's pulse. He felt it violently thrumming against his shaking fingers. Too fast, he thought desperately. Sirens wailed in the distance and John wished they would hurry the hell up.

"Where are the goddamn pills?" Elizabeth cried. She upended Sherlock's bag onto the floor and riffled through the contents frantically.

"There's no point now! Go outside and see if the ambulance has arrived!" John yelled. She rushed out of the flat, tripping in her haste and he turned his attention back to the barely conscious man on his floor.

"If you fucking die on me _again_ Sherlock, I'll bring you back and kill you myself!" he screamed. Sherlock weakly groaned as he vomited up bile. Stay calm, he reminded himself. He was losing control of the situation. You're no use to anyone if you're not focussed.

The smell of puke made John's eyes water and he pulled off Sherlock's black jacket. He stuffed it under his head and couldn't do anything else but feel helpless. Sherlock's shirt was stuck to his chest and his hair was plastered to his forehead, completely soaked in sweat. His breathing was laboured and harsh. What the hell made John think he would be able to live with this? How could anyone expect him to take care of Sherlock? He was so far out of his depth here.

"Sherlock! Sherlock listen to me! Open your eyes! Come on, Sherlock!" John slapped his cheek harder now, desperate to hear his voice.

"John, they're here!" Elizabeth called up. Two paramedics rushed through the door and knelt beside them. One checked Sherlock's vitals, while the other pushed John away. He fought the nurse for a few moments, but then he let up. For the second time in his life, John could do nothing but watch Sherlock die.

Everything John felt in the next twenty minutes was forever ingrained on his heart. He felt numb horror as Sherlock was lifted into the ambulance. He felt exasperated as he pried an apologising Elizabeth and a weeping Mrs Hudson off of him, and he felt angry as he battled for his right to go in the ambulance with Sherlock.

The ride to the hospital was a blur, full of flashing lights, beeping machines and wires. The only thing grounding him to reality was the hand holding his tightly. Sherlock had awoken again due to the commotion, and he shook and convulsed on the gurney. John was unable to do anything but watch with wide eyes as the nurse attempted to stabilize his quickly deteriorating condition. John gripped Sherlock's hand tightly, feeling the erratic and unsteady thrum of his heart.

When they arrived at the hospital, Sherlock was taken inside and wheeled to a private room, where he would be given the appropriate medication and treatment. John was strongly denied any access to him, and he watched with resigned despair as a deathly pale Sherlock rolled around a corner and out of his sight.

xxx

"John! How're ya doing?"

"Greg? What are you doing here?"

John accepted the coffee he was holding out to him and made room for the Detective Inspector on the blue leather seat. Greg sat down and leant back, loosening his tie and undoing the first button.

"Your landlady called me. Could hardly understand her through all the tears. Poor woman." John sipped his coffee and grimaced. It had sugar in it, so he put it aside.

"Yeah, but why are you here?" John asked.

"What do you mean 'why'? Sherlock nearly died tonight, why wouldn't I be here?"

John still didn't understand. "But, he's not he old Sherlock anymore, Greg. He can't solve crimes or make deductions now, don't you understand?"

"No, I don't understand! Why the hell does it matter if he's different now? Why shouldn't I be here?"

John became frustrated at Lestrade's obtuseness and said heatedly, "Because he's not the same Sherlock! He's not your special detective that solves your crimes anymore! He's changed, so why are you _here_?" John briefly let the anger and hurt he'd been hiding for weeks show on the outside. Why the hell was his life so _difficult_? Was Greg being slow on purpose?

Greg became defensive and whispered angrily, "Do you think I'm really that shallow? Do you think I shouldn't be here because one of my oldest friends has brain damage can't do _my job_ anymore?"

John realized his mistake. "Greg, I'm sorry, that didn't come out right. I-"

"Do you even know how I found out about Sherlock?" Greg asked, "I didn't hear it from you, or from Molly, or from Mrs Hudson- no! I heard it from Mycroft's fucking secretary! His _secretary_!" Greg spat.

"Look, Greg, I'm sorry you weren't told firs-"

"No John, you need to listen," Greg said forcefully, "What the hell does it matter if he's different? Hmm?" John had nothing to say.

"If you're so confused about why _I'm_ here, then what's your goddamn reason?"

Greg left, his feet pounding on the linoleum floors as he stalked away. John didn't know what to think.

Why am I here?

He tried to take his mind off it. After sitting down for another hour, he decided to drink the coffee Greg gave him. It was far too sweet for his taste and it was stone cold, but he was struggling to stay awake. A doctor later came in and said that Sherlock was completely stable now and was sleeping. He could see him during visiting hours at ten. John felt like he would collapse from relief himself.

At two o'clock in the morning, Elizabeth arrived. She was wearing a fresh change of clothes and he could tell she had been crying.

She sat where Greg had been earlier and said quietly,

"I'm sorry I wasn't here sooner, Mrs Hudson made me rest before I could come."

John laughed bitterly. "Seriously? That's your excuse? She's an old woman Elizabeth, I'm sure if you really wanted to be here, you would've been in the ambulance with me." She fiddled with her red skirt and whispered.

"I'm sorry."

"Sorry isn't going to cut it." he snapped.

John left and walked to the public canteen for some more coffee. This time he made it how he liked it and when he came back, Elizabeth had gone. He sighed in relief and settled down again. He noticed a note where she had been sitting and read it.

"You were a better caretaker than me, anyway."

Well that wasn't helping. His conscience laughed at him cruelly. John pushed the thoughts away and got comfortable, ready to wait until morning. He picked up a magazine and tried to distract himself.

At eight o'clock, Mycroft arrived with an umbrella and a Styrofoam cup in his hands.

"Good morning, John. I hope you don't mind me bringing you something to drink."

"God no." he took the cup and gulped the pleasantly warm liquid down, glad for the taste of tea that covered his dry mouth. He had drunk four cups of coffee already and was strung tighter than a violin string. The tea helped him relax, even if only slightly.

"Have you been home since last night?" Mycroft asked dubiously, inspecting John's baggy eyes and wrinkled clothes.

He yawned, drowsy from the tea, "No, it didn't occur to me. I've had something to eat though."

"You should know better than anyone that hospital food doesn't count, _Dr Watson_." John chuckled and scratched his day old stubble.

"You do realize that within under twenty four hours of Sherlock being in your care, he's already nearly died? That's quite an achievement, you should be proud."

"What the hell are you talking about?"

"I'm saying Sherlock hasn't shut up about yesterday since he woke up-"

"He's awake?"

"Has been for a few hours, yes. He keeps asking for you and it's quite annoying. Now, I never realized the results of sending Nurse Hiles along with you yesterday would be quite that _catastrophic_-"

"By the way, don't be too hard on her. It was an honest mistake and she's obviously remorseful." he pointed out. Mycroft sighed exasperatedly.

"Please stop interrupting me, John, I would like to actually finish a sentence for once." John nodded and drank his tea. "Thank you. As I was saying, Sherlock has been talking about you and all the things you did yesterday nonstop," Mycroft adopted a wistful tone, and it sounded unnatural coming from him. "You have done a marvellous job of spending a large amount of time with him in a 'fun' and if you ignore the mistake on Nurse Hiles' part, safe manner."

John didn't get what Mycroft was trying to tell him. "So," he began, "You're saying that I, John Watson, managed to keep Sherlock Holmes happy. For a whole day." He couldn't believe it. Even when Sherlock had a case he was never happy.

"Well, despite the near death experience-yes. He has been very happy. He hasn't been this upbeat, dare I say, since he first came back from rehabilitation and thought he was going back home to you."

"You make it sound like he's a child who can't wait to go home to _Daddy_, Mycroft."

"He is a child in a way, John. And he misses you. Constantly."

John groaned and finished his tea.

"Don't start this shit with me, Mycroft. I'm too tired to talk about Sherlock's dependency issues."

"Then go home. Take a nap, have a shower, for God's sake-just be back here at ten. God knows what Sherlock would do if you didn't show up."

"He can't be that bad." John stood up and stretched. Mycroft laughed dryly.

"Just because he isn't a genius anymore doesn't mean he can't wreak havoc when he wants to."

John chuckled humourlessly and left, glad for the opportunity to go back to Baker Street. The thought of going home had actually occurred to him, but he simply felt like it would be abandoning Sherlock all over again.

What does it matter to you if you abandon him again? He's not your responsibility, remember? he thought as he climbed the stairs to his flat. Mrs Hudson was still asleep most likely after last night's drama.

But didn't you hear what Greg said? Why were you even there in the first place, if you 'don't care' as you keep saying? his conscience argued back. Do I care? Of course I do-it's Sherlock! But...he's different now...so why do I still care?

John started his shower, happy to feel clean and fresh again. He mulled over what his visitors at the hospital said.

"_You were a better caretaker than me, anyway_." was written on the note Elizabeth left. John grimaced. She was right, Liz was a crappy nurse. She had forgotten to give Sherlock his medication and then panicked when he collapsed. Not qualities a nurse would put on their resume. He dressed himself and made a small breakfast of scrambled eggs. His mind surprisingly didn't have a comeback for his conscience. His conscience brought forward the evidence of Mycroft's testimony.

_"He hasn't been this upbeat, dare I say, since he first came back from rehabilitation and thought he was going back home to you."___

"He misses you. Constantly."

"Dammit!" John growled. He abandoned his half eaten breakfast (or brunch?) and left the flat, taking along Sherlock's skull.

He had to look after Sherlock. He needed him, he saw that now. Why did it take him so bloody long for him to realize that?

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**AN: UGH even I'm happy it's finally going to happen! I felt that it was important to draw out this decision and make it hard for John, because my characters are OOC enough already and John accepting Sherlock immediately would have really been too much.**

**Hope you enjoyed! Suggestions are appreciated! I'm not very happy with this chapter title so if you guys come up with one please tell me!**


	13. Departure

**AN: Sorry for the delay guys! I was having some trouble coming up with this chapter, and if I'm completely honest- I'm still not happy with it. But I feel this is the best I can come up with now and I didn't want to make you guys wait any longer. I feel like my writing quality has dropped in the past few weeks, but don't worry-I'm sure it'll pass and I'll be back to my arrogant, overconfident self in no time! :D**

**Remember I'm still open to any and all suggestions. I'm hoping to add some fluff into this story at some point (no story is complete without fluff) so whatever you may have in mind, fluff or not, don't hesitate to tell me in a review or a PM message!**

**I've added some little updates here and there to previous chapters, just to make some ideas more obvious and foreshadowing clearer. Nothing major.**

**Sorry for the long AN and I hope you guys like this chapter more than I do! Enjoy!**

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**Departure**

John's stomach was a flurry of churning butterflies when he reached the hospital. The morning sky was grey and lifeless, very different to what he was feeling inside. He heart was like booming thunder; his breathing like sharp white lightning and his quick footfalls were devastating torrential rain, threatening to smash everything down to nothing. He felt like his head would explode if he didn't do _something_.

He marched down the corridors, ready to barge straight into Sherlock's room and face whatever demons were inside. However as soon as his hand touched for the doorknob he froze. The metal handle was cold and slippery with his sweat.

What am I doing? This isn't some James Bond film; this is Sherlock. He had to calm down and take control. For him.

John took a few deep breathes and thought about what he would say. He had no idea what he was going to do. He heard voices inside the private room and he leaned against the wood to listen. He caught a few lines of conversation, one of the voices definitely Sherlock's.

"…it's boring here…" John smiled; of course he would be bored.

"…you need ….vital for your health…" John recognised this as Mycroft's voice, firm and unyielding. John heard a sigh from inside.

"…John...is he?"

He was asking….about _him?_ He couldn't quite believe it, did Sherlock wanted to see him? John took another deep breath and twisted the handle, forcing his feet to step into the brightly lit room. He opened the door slowly and when he saw Sherlock, he wasn't sure whether his heart ached from relief or grief. He looked so small. Sherlock was pale and swaddled up in hospital blankets and pillows, his hospital gown fitting comfortably on his frame. He wasn't so skinny now that he had begun eating regular meals.

The two brothers examined him, Mycroft comprehending and Sherlock eagerly. John gave a little smile and Sherlock simply radiated. Before John could do anything Sherlock turned to his brother sharply.

"Leave."

John struggled to hide a smile and Mycroft sighed resignedly. "Just remember what I told you, Sherlock. It will do you good to follow my advice."

"I don't know what you're talking about." Sherlock said defensively.

Mycroft looked at John, "I'll come back at lunch to check on Sherlock." Sherlock sneered at his brother, "Good morning John." Mycroft said. John nodded and the elder Holmes left without another word. John sat down next to Sherlock's bed, a bit unsure of what to do. He rested the skull on his lap, fiddling with the eye sockets nervously. Sherlock drank in the sight of John before spotting the object in his lap.

"Is that my skull?" Sherlock reached for the skull and John handed it to him, surprised by the delight on his face. Sherlock turned it in his hands, studying the familiar scratches and marks in the head. It must be nice to have something that reminded him of home, John surmised. He leant back in the wooden chair comfortably and felt a little more relaxed, seeing that Sherlock was happy and healthy again.

Well, as healthy as he's ever going to get. His mind mumbled. John violently shoved the thought away, pulling a face at the unpleasantness of it. Sherlock didn't notice. He had to stop thinking like that! Sherlock wasn't going to change back, so why reflect on it in such a negative light?

_"Why aren't you seeing your therapist anymore?"_

_"What?"_

John closed his eyes and withheld the urge to groan miserably. He was never going to forget that. How cruel it was that Sherlock had one moment of curiosity (perhaps Mycroft had told him about his therapist) in Mrs Hudson's flat and it gave John hope. A painful, pointless hope. Sherlock was never going to be a detective again; he just didn't have that….ability anymore. At first John had been forced to deal with Sherlock being dead (and he still had some questions about that) but now he had to live with this new Sherlock. This irrevocably different Sherlock.

At first he had been unable to cope with it. It was _too_ different, _too _much had changed. Now that he had spent some time with his friend and come to terms with it all (and been forced to see how much Sherlock needed him) he felt like he was ready to do something. It was still going to be hard, but he hoped he would get used to it. He would have to.

"John?"

"Yeah?" Sherlock was still holding the skull, rubbing his thumb over the temple pensively. Sherlock looked nervous, almost shy. It was an expression that John had never seen on him before. Sherlock asked quietly,

"Where am I going today?"

The simple question held such a desperate plea. John couldn't help but smile widely; this was something he could do. He could finally do something to help Sherlock.

"We're going home." He said sincerely. Sherlock didn't say anything, but he saw the happiness and…was that relief in his eyes? Sherlock looked down at the skull in his lap and nodded quickly. His shoulder's shook ever so slightly and John realised he was crying. He dragged his chair closer to Sherlock and held out a hand. Sherlock grabbed it gratefully and squeezed tightly. John was perturbed- had something happened with his brother? Was this a normal emotional response now? He would have to ask to Mycroft about that.

John realised he was going to need to learn how to take cues from Sherlock. He had always been bad at expressing himself, but now it was going to be even more important that John knew what Sherlock was feeling. He was also going to have to get use to the physical side of communication- the affection that is. But he could do that, it may take time and…..control (John blushed lightly), but he could do it. He could deal with this. John focussed on Sherlock's hand, gripping his own like a life line.

For the rest of the morning, John sat in his chair and held Sherlock's hand, rubbing the smooth skin gently with his thumb. They exchanged very few words, just enjoying each other's presence and watching the morning news on the small television mounted on the wall. John hadn't felt calmer since…he really didn't know-probably before Sherlock jumped off a fucking building. It was going to be hard not taking his frustration out on Sherlock. He didn't deserve that.

Mycroft returned again at midday and Sherlock visibly tensed on the bed. They were still holding hands, but loosely. John's arm rested on the bed next to Sherlock palm up, and he had been running his fingers along the skin absentmindedly while they watched telly. It had felt nice. Sherlock gripped John's wrist when his brother entered.

"Hello again boys. I've arranged with the doctor's for you two to eat out for lunch. Angelo's I remember was your _favourite _restaurant of choice, was it not?" John tried to hide his grimace. Sometimes Mycroft just gave him the chills, he didn't know why. Perhaps it was the judgmental thoughts he had hidden behind the polite talk and three piece suits.

"We don't need you to get us food Mycroft," Sherlock paused to order his thoughts, thinking of what to say next. "John is v-very a-able to do that." He tripped over his words, but he didn't lose his nerve. Sherlock looked at John for reassurance and he smiled at him, feeling a little uneasy himself.

Whoa, what? I'm able? John hadn't realised Sherlock thought so highly of him. It was…uplifting. Encouraging. Mycroft gave a tight lipped smile. "Of course he is. I was just letting you know." Mycroft turned to leave.

"Actually, I've decided that we're going to eat at Baker Street." John said. Mycroft turned around, surprised.

"Just for today?" he asked. His eyebrows rose in disbelief, obviously not expecting this update. John looked at Sherlock and couldn't help but laugh.

"Indefinitely" he said, smiling broadly in Mycroft's face.

Mycroft frowned. "Are you sure about that, John?"

"I have never been surer of anything. I'll contact you tonight to go over the details of being Sherlock's legal guardian. I also have some other issues I would like to discuss with you later." Man, it felt good to be the one calling the shots for once.

Mycroft smiled, one that John wasn't sure whether it was phony or not. "I'm sure my brother will be ecstatic. I'll have all his belongings delivered tomorrow."

Mycroft left and the sound of the television filled the small room. John thought about setting out a routine for the day, just so Sherlock knew what they were going to do, but before he could get up and talk to the nurse, he was captured in a desperately tight hug. Sherlock had his legs still in the bed, but his torso was draped over John's chest. He had flung his arms over his shoulders and scrunched the jacket in tight fists. John choked out a surprised yell and fell back into his seat.

"John." Sherlock whispered into the crook of his neck.

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**AN: Leave a review please? For me? *offers you a waffle***


	14. Duty of Cuddling

**AN: HOLY GUACAMOLE YOU GUYS! YOU'RE ALL SO NICE TO ME AND 42 REVIEWS! 42! THAT'S THE ANSWER TO EVERYTHING! I LOVE THAT NUMBER YOU'RE ALL SO AMAZING AND I LOVE YOU THE ENCOURAGEMENT IS SO SWEET *kisses u all on the cheek* *giggles***

**Alright seriously though, thank you all so much for the support! I never would have expected to have such kind and helpful readers! Now on with the story!**

**Enjoy!**

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**Duty of Cuddling**

"Oh…hey, what are you doing up so late?"

Sherlock stood in the doorway and looked around the kitchen blearily, squinting against the harsh light. As John's eyes swept over his flatmate, he became concerned. His pyjamas were twisted around his torso, the neck and armpits soaked in sweat, and his forehead glistening under the fluorescent lights. It was just past ten PM and John was going to have one last cup of tea before heading to bed. They had been living together for just under two months and John was finally starting to learn and recognise Sherlock's new expressions. The expression on his face now was not good.

"Sherlock? What's wrong?" John abandoned the boiling kettle and wandered to his friend, checking his temperature. His forehead felt cold, but when John wiped away the sweat with his sleeve, more arose. Sherlock's hair stuck to the back of his neck and he looked upset. He wasn't responding to John's touches (very unusual) and he held his face in his hands, forcing Sherlock to look at him.

"Sherlock," he said, "I need you to tell me what's wrong." he blinked a few times and slowly, ever so slowly, he pressed his forehead against John's and hugged him. The hug was tight, and John felt it necessary to hug him back- he seemed to need the reassurance. Sherlock was obviously hurting, perhaps a nightmare? Mycroft had warned John about them, but this was the first time it had happened.

"Come on Sherlock, back to bed." John grabbed his hand and led him down the dark hallway. John sighed when he saw the bed sheets- there was a big stain in the middle and he looked back at Sherlock- yep. He'd peed himself. He was surprised he hadn't smelt it sooner. John's heart clenched in sympathy.

"Oh, Sherlock." John turned back to see him looking utterly ashamed of himself, his cheeks flushed with embarrassment. John grabbed Sherlock's other hand and faced him. John had certainly had his fair share of nightmares and he knew how humiliating wetting yourself was.

"It's okay Sherlock, really. It happens to all of us." Sherlock's face was blotchy and puffy and when he looked John in the eye, he saw they were red from crying. John pulled him into another hug and they stood there like that for several minutes, swaying gently. Just the darkness and the sounds of their own breathing kept them company. Eventually Sherlock slackened his grip and John explained to him what they were going to do in clear, concise sentences.

First, John helped Sherlock out of his soiled night ware and assisted him in getting into the shower. While Sherlock washed himself, John collected some fresh pyjamas and underwear from the cupboard and laid them out on the bed. Next, he removed the smelly sheets and chucked all the dirty fabrics in the washing machine. John handed a now clean and dry Sherlock his fresh pyjamas and turned away as he dressed, ready to help if he needed it.

John helped Sherlock with the buttons on his shirt and they both remade the bed. John instructed him which corner to take and he helped him tuck the sheets in under the bed. When they were done Sherlock beamed proudly at the bed and John felt a rush of affection for him. He looked so happy with that stupid grin on his face.

By the time they were done Sherlock didn't seem so upset, but he was in no way ready to sleep. As John turned to leave Sherlock made a strangled noise in his throat. He turned back and looked at his flat mate. He realised he would have to do something to calm and soothe his emotionally distressed friend. John excused himself and rushed up to his room, changing into his own pyjamas. He grabbed his own pillow as well for good measure. John jogged back down the stairs to find Sherlock standing exactly where he had left him, looking lost. His eyes brightened considerably when he saw John in his pyjamas and he climbed into bed eagerly.

John chuckled at the excitement on his face and replaced one of the pillows with his own. Sherlock really did remind John of a child sometimes. They both clambered under the sheets and immediately Sherlock latched onto John, curling himself around his short frame. John was surprised, but he soon recovered, relaxing into the lanky man. He wrapped an arm around Sherlock's shoulders and tucked the other arm behind his head.

Sherlock melted into the warmth of John and his breathing slowed. John tried to resist the temptation, but after half an hour, he couldn't contain his curiosity any longer.

"Do you want to talk about it?"

Sherlock yawned and stretched sleepily, "About what?"

"The nightmare." Sherlock twisted to look up at him. He furrowed his brow and pursed his lips, trying to remember. Hazy images of snow and stone walls swam into his mind's eye. He felt a shiver run up his spine, remembering how cold he had felt in the dream. He also remembered….pain. So much pain. Then he recalled something else and he gripped tighter to John.

"I remember fists…and a metal pipe. I was being hit with them."

John resisted the need to hold Sherlock tighter, he was afraid of breaking him.

"Who was hitting you?" John rasped. He felt Sherlock shaking next to him.

"I…" Sherlock thought harder, forcing his mind to dredge up the horrible dream. But it was disappearing too quickly. "I think it was…I remember…he was Russian." Sherlock heard the language in his head, harsh and thick with the accent. He couldn't translate what they were saying now, he was too tired to think properly. He felt John still next to him.

"They were speaking in Russian…and they were hitting me," Sherlock shuddered, "it hurt so much. I was so cold. And hungry John, I was so hungry." he began to cry softly, clutching onto his warm, solid John. John would protect him. John would scare away the nightmares. John would keep him safe. He didn't know what he would do without his John. He burrowed deeper into the blankets, desperate to banish the chill he suddenly felt.

John felt like curling into a ball and crying himself. He remembered. Even if he didn't know what the dream meant, Sherlock still remembered those horrible months in Russia, and it broke his heart. They had broken him. Those Russian bastards broke his Sherlock and he could never get him back. John turned onto his side so he was facing Sherlock and hugged him; giving the comfort he needed himself. Sherlock sobbed into his chest, his tears running down his face and onto the clean sheets.

John didn't fall asleep until the early hours of the morning; however Sherlock had succumbed quickly, his whispery snores failing to drag John under as well. He was pressed up tight against John's chest and he didn't bother push him away. He didn't care that they were basically cuddling. He had done a lot of thinking in the past two months and the only thing he cared about now was keeping Sherlock safe. When he had woken up from his nightmare earlier, he hadn't felt safe. It was John's duty to keep Sherlock happy, a task he felt honoured to have bestowed upon him. Sherlock trusted John with his life and he intended to remain faithful to him. For all the pain Sherlock had suffered, it was the least he could do.

John Watson felt like the luckiest person in the world when he finally closed his eyes.

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**AN: Oh wow, was that fluff? It's chapter 14 and this is the first fluff yet? *whistles***

**Well, I hope u liked it, there's gonna be more soon! Leave a review please? I'd like to know if the characters were OOC at all :)**


	15. Goldfish

**AN: Hey everyone! So from now on, there will be little mentions from S3 as the name of this chapter suggests, but there will be no major spoilers. Still, I suggest you watch the S3 before continuing on with this story, sorry! **

**I know I've been haranguing you guys for ideas, but I really value your opinions and I want this story to be something that everyone can participate in and enjoy! Also, I'm writing up a proper plot now, so if you have any ideas (whether you think they're bad or not- I don't care!) please send them in to me via review or PM! I will look at EVERYTHING and try to fit it into the story in some way! **

**For those who have joined in reading this story long after it's posted (welcome!) you can suggest ideas too! Because the story arc will be set in stone more (and I may have actually finished writing the story), the prompts may not definitely go in, but I will do my best to try!**

**Sorry for the long AN (again...) and enjoy the chapter!**

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**Goldfish**

It had been two months since the nightmare incident and life had settled down in Baker Street. Things were comfortable.

"Hey, Sherl?"

"What?"

"How do you feel about getting a pet?"

As soon as John uttered the words he regretted it. They were both lounging in their flat, John reading the paper in his arm chair and Sherlock sitting by his feet, watching the morning news on the television. It was early in the morning and they were both still in their pyjamas, enjoying the tea Mrs Hudson had brought up earlier.

Sherlock didn't give any indication he'd heard him. John raised his eyebrows questioningly. "Sherlock?" He wished he hadn't asked at all, he was probably plotting and scheming already. Most likely about what experiments he could perform on the poor animals. After a prolonged silence, John sighed and went back to his paper.

There had been a violent mugging resulting in the death of a young woman, and Lestrade was in charge of tracking down the offender. John hadn't talked to him since the argument in the hospital and he wanted to apologize. He also felt like going out to the pub for a drink, and he didn't fancy going alone. Perhaps he should call him up and arrange for them to go out for a drinking night on Friday?

"What kind of pet?" Sherlock finally asked. John looked down at him and shrugged.

"Any kind, I guess, " he said, "as long as it's manageable, really."

"Hmm."

Sherlock didn't say anything more and John let the quiet linger. He finished his tea and tidied up the living room, humming a tune that Sherlock had played on his violin last week. Now that John was no longer working at the clinic, he found himself with a lot of time on his hands. Looking after Sherlock did take the majority of his day, but there were times when he didn't require much supervision. Today was one of those days and he felt like moving, like getting out of the flat.

"We could go to the pet store if you want. Take a look around?"

"Look around?"

John smiled at his confused frown. "Yeah, you look at animals. If you see one you like, you buy it and take it home." John wasn't surprised Sherlock had no idea what to do at a pet store; he'd probably never been to one before.

"Can we go now?"

"Sure. We'll get dressed first, head over to some different pet stores nearby and then we'll have lunch at a café. Sound good?"

"Yes, John."

xxx

"Ugh, for God's sake Sherlock, just pick a flipping Goldfish!"

"But it has to be the right one! There are so many different factors to take into account!"

"Like what?" John retorted irritably. He pinched the bridge of his nose and glanced up at Sherlock. He was looking down at him with big hurt eyes, and John felt bad for snapping at him. He didn't understand why John was getting frustrated. John sighed and rubbed Sherlock's lower arm reassuringly.

"I'm sorry for shouting, Sherlock. Can you please just pick a fish and then we can go pay and have lunch?" Sherlock gave a small smile and touched John's arm lightly. They touched each other's arms and shoulders a lot; it was very helpful for Sherlock. John held his arms firmly when he wanted his attention, or he rubbed his elbows and grabbed his hands when John wanted to soothe him. Sherlock liked touching, it was very comforting and much easier than using words.

"The fish isn't for me, John." He said, offended that he would think that he would want such a boring pet.

"Then who's it for?"

"Mycroft."

John burst out laughing. "Mycroft?" he giggled, "What the hell would your brother want with a Goldfish?" Sherlock grinned, glad that John liked the idea.

"I overheard Mycroft on the phone once. He was complaining about Goldfish and he said that he wanted one."

"Why are you giving him a gift? I thought you hated him." Sherlock grimaced,

"I don't hate him. He just confuses me."

John frowned, "How does he confuse you?"

"I just never know what he's thinking," he shrugged, "It's unsettling…I use to always be able to tell what he had been doing that day or what he was thinking when he looked at me…but now I can't."

John looked down at his shoes and nodded. All of a sudden he felt guilty. He knew why Sherlock wasn't able to tell these things about his brother anymore, but he couldn't tell him why. He just couldn't. It would ruin him forever.

Sherlock exclaimed happily when he saw the right fish. It was quite large and a mix between silver and orange. It reminded John of an old fox, its colour greying from age. John went to the cashier and explained the exact fish they wanted. Due to the rare breed, it was quite expensive. John was happy to fork out the cash as the salary Mycroft paid him was more than enough to cover for these sorts of luxuries. Plus, he wanted to see Mycroft's face when Sherlock handed him the useless animal.

John organised with the shop owner for them to collect the fish when they came back from lunch. They both walked to a small sandwich shop down the street and John asked if Sherlock wanted to order for himself. Sherlock shook his head strongly and avoided eye contact with everyone. He still had issues with crowded places, and the deli store they were in had a few people in close proximity. Still not ready to talk in public yet, John thought sadly. He had been trying to give Sherlock different opportunities to talk to people other than John or Mrs Hudson, however he seemed dead set on not interacting with another human being ever. John sighed and pulled Sherlock to the front. He ordered a simple meal for them both and they picked out a table by the window.

"Do you know what kind of pet you want, Sherlock?" John spooned some pasta into his mouth and chewed, enjoying the rich creamy flavour. Sherlock scrutinized his meal closely, a habit he'd developed out of paranoia. He didn't really like eating restaurant food- there was always the chance that someone had poisoned it. However John was eating and Sherlock trusted John to give him non-poisoned food.

"Really? What breed was it?" John was surprised; he wouldn't have pegged Sherlock as a dog person. Sherlock ate with gusto now that he was sure the food was safe. John pulled Sherlock's medication out of his pocket and handed the bottles to him. As he twisted them open he said contemplatively,

"An Irish Setter. I want another one like that or similar; little dogs are too...squeaky." John laughed as Sherlock drank some water with his tablets.

"Do you want to go to the pound?" John asked through a mouthful.

"Why would I want to go there?" John chewed his food thoughtfully.

"Well, they're all dogs that don't have homes and it would certainly be cheaper than buying a brand new puppy." Sherlock rolled his eyes childishly.

"Why should we care about money?"

"Because I don't like to be wasteful, and if we go to the pound, you can pick whatever dog you like. Usually the ones in stores are untrained and most of the ones in the pound are. Well, to some extent." John finished his meal and wiped his mouth on a napkin. Sherlock agreed with John's idea and they both exited the deli.

The cab ride was quiet, as they usually were now days. Before Sherlock 'died', silence wasn't uncommon in the cabs, but there was always something to think about for John -usually a case to mull over. Now when there was silence, it was because there was nothing to think _or_ talk about. John wondered what Sherlock thought about now days. Did he even think? Stupid John, of course he did! But what could the Great Sherlock Holmes think about now he was…impaired?

John was pulled from his musings when Sherlock leaned over to whisper in his ear, "Do you think our driver knows he's being cheated on?" Sherlock snickered and John squinted at him suspiciously.

"What are you talking about?"

"Don't be thick John; you know what I'm talking about! See the photo he's attached to his dashboard? They're at some party of sorts and the woman standing next to him- obviously a girlfriend-"

"How do you know she's not his wife?" John couldn't help but ask. He felt like he was in a dream. This couldn't be happening.

"Look at her hand, no ring-obvious. Now, she's looking at our driver in the photo with big loving eyes, and he's even wrapped an arm around her waist, but look," He leaned forward excitedly and pointed at the other woman's arm, "She holding the other woman's hand and passing a note to her. The photograph was obviously a spur of the moment thing; neither woman knew it was being taken and look at the second woman's face,"

John stared at Sherlock, not quite believing what he was seeing, "She has a mischievous look in her eye. Ha! It's so obvious!" he laughed, "His girlfriend is cheating on him with another woman!" Sherlock tried to contain his glee, but wasn't doing a very good job. The driver huffed out an angry breath, but thankfully, he hadn't heard his….deduction? Oh Jesus, the f*ck just happened? John pulled Sherlock back onto his seat by the collar.

"Sherlock!" he hissed, "You can't just go shouting out that someone's cheating on their partner!" Sherlock's smile faded and he cowered in his seat. John spluttered for something else to say. His mind was running wild and he couldn't control it. Holy f*cking sh*t.

Sherlock was staring at his knees looking like a kicked puppy. John's heart melted at the wretched sight of him. He might as well have had a tail between his legs. John breathed deeply through his nose and linked his arm with Sherlock's. Sherlock squeezed back tightly and rested his head on John's shoulder.

"I'm sorry I shouted Sherlock. Next time you…learn something about someone," John tried not to lose his nerve, "just keep it to yourself, okay? You can tell me later when were alone if you really want to."

"Why can't I tell you straight away?" John sighed. It was like telling a child why they couldn't call people names.

"Because it's rude, Sherlock. You might hurt their feelings." Sherlock was about to say something else when the cab stopped.

"Alrigh' outta my cab." the driver barked. Not wanting to cause a scene, John quickly paid the fare and dragged Sherlock out behind him. The driver took off and John saw him adjusting the picture on his dashboard roughly. Sh*t, he had heard.

Sherlock groaned his displeasure dramatically. John patted his shoulder. "Calm down, Sherlock. We're only a block away from the shelter."

They began walking, and John tried not to stare at Sherlock too much.

xxx

"That one, John."

"Seriously?"

"Yup."

"...Alright, if you're sure..."

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**AN: And the plot thickens...don't forget to review my lovelies! *throws out doughnuts* **


	16. Of Fishes, Fur and Forensics

**AN: Hello again everybody! I'm really sorry this is late, but school's been crazy! ****As this year is really important for me, I won't have very much time to write, so chapters won't come as often- sorry!**

**I want to send out a HUGE thankyou to everyone who has favourited/followed and reviewed, you're all so nice and the support is really appreciated! ****Sorry this chapter is so short- I didn't see any reason to make it longer to be honest :P**

**Enjoy!**

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**Of Fishes, Fur and Forensics**

John glared over the top of his morning paper. He rustled the pages in the animal's face, but it didn't budge.

"Shoo"

The dog licked its wet chops, saliva stringing off its snout and onto John's trousers. It shuffled around; eventually dropping its wrinkly behind on John's socked feet. He yelped in pain as the monstrous creature crushed his unprotected toes.

"Sherlock! Sherlock, get him off me! Ow!" He gasped. He tried to pull his feet up onto his chair, but the dog was too heavy.

"Gladstone! Come here, boy!" Sherlock called. He abandoned his microscope to greet the dog.

Gladstone unhurriedly lumbered over to Sherlock, his long tongue drooping out the side of his mouth. There was a heavy thud as he sat by Sherlock's feet and he pressed himself into his owner's shins. Gladstone grizzled happily as his fur was scratched.

"Are you okay, John?" Sherlock asked worriedly.

"Yeah, 'm fine. Just bloody hurt." John mumbled, rubbing his sore toes.

Sherlock moved over to the couch and Gladstone followed behind, his tiny nub of a tail swaying. While the English bulldog was very close to the ground and about half the length of the coffee table, it was double the thickness of John's stomach and weighed a tonne. His excess skin was soft and fatty, encompassing his old body in what looked like a blonde fuzzy blanket. The dog attempted to jump up onto the sofa and Sherlock made room for him.

"Oi! Gladstone, down!" John barked.

"Come on, John! It's a-a… l-leather couch, we can wipe off the fur." He whined. Gladstone wheezed with the exertion of jumping the small height. John shook his head vehemently.

"No, Sherlock. We agreed; he can go anywhere except for the bathroom and on the furniture. We _agreed_." He insisted. Sherlock reluctantly pushed Gladstone off the couch with his foot and he thumped onto the floor. He settled by Sherlock's hand instead, gurgling in his throat contently as Sherlock rolled the loose skin between his fingers.

"And don't forget to feed the goldfish; you didn't do it yesterday. You remember where the flakes are, right?" Sherlock nodded and promised to do it after lunch. John glanced over to the fish by the mantel piece. Their orange and silver (temporary) pet was rather cramped in its bowl- it was the biggest one they owned but was still too small. Mycroft was due to come over in a few days, just to check on Sherlock and they planned to give it to him then. (John didn't appreciate Mycroft's…concern for Sherlock).

He looked back at Gladstone and scowled as he watched a patch of stringy slobber grow rapidly on the rug. It wasn't that he disliked the dog, in fact, his gentle nature and lazy predisposition was extremely endearing. It was just the dog hair and drool found its way into every crack and crevice of the flat. The spit was hell to get out of clothes and the sheer amount of food he consumed was awe inspiring. Expenses weren't the issue; it was carrying the thirty kilo bags of dog food up the stairs every month that did John's back in.

As he silently cursed the stairs he climbed every day, he heard feet thudding up them. Sherlock had focussed his attention on scratching Gladstone behind the ears and hadn't heard. John turned to the door as Mrs Hudson entered, looking confused.

"Oh, hello Mrs Hudson," John frowned, "is there something wrong?"

"Well, it's just," she faltered and Sherlock looked up curiously, "There's a man here who,-if I remember correctly- used to be from forensics? Is that right?"

A head poked out from behind Mrs Hudson.

"Anderson? What are you doing here?"

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**AN: I can't live without reviews in the way that Sherlock can't live without his intelli-**

**OOPS! I can't tell you that! It would be a spoiler!**

**...or is it?**


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